


With the Shower On

by TheseusInTheMaze



Category: That Guy with the Glasses/Channel Awesome
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Death, Gen, Grief, Loss, Spoilers: To Boldly Flee, TGWTG Big House AU, problematic language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 05:11:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheseusInTheMaze/pseuds/TheseusInTheMaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grief is a process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With the Shower On

There are scripts for most things in life, even the horrible things, in ways that we probably shouldn’t think about. But there is a comfort in the script, in following the ritual. You throw the dirt on the coffin, say the words, cover the mirrors and you get on with your life. 

The Chick knew a few of those rituals, even followed some of them in a lackadaisical way. Once the adventure was well and truly over – when the dishes needed washing and the laundry needed doing and all of the little things that just weren’t important enough at the time were finished – the Chick had gotten so drunk that she didn’t remember the rest of the night, and a good chunk of the next day. She cried, and it was ugly crying, the kind you do in the shower with the music on loud, so nobody can hear. She had done her piece, or whatever version of her piece that it was, and began the process of getting on with her life. After all, a nostalgia monopoly doesn’t just run itself, and anyway, there was still the matter that the Critic wasn’t entirely, technically dead. He was a muppet, sure, but still. At least, that was what she told herself, and sometimes she even believed herself. 

And then that smug song of a bitch had the balls – the utter fucking _balls_ \- to show up again, talking about some new people he’d met and purgatory and… she didn’t care. she didn’t even really believe it was really him, until Insano did half a billion tests and declared that yes, indeed, this was the Nostalgia Critic. The one from this universe even, not some alternate clone or anything like that. Then the Chick (who was just idling in the kitchen when he made this pronouncement, because who doesn’t get up to get a beer at eight in the morning, even if there is a big meeting going on?) had left the room very quickly, because she didn’t know if she wanted to throttle the Critic or burst out crying, and both of those urges just pissed her off. 

But the worst part? The fucking _worst_ part? Nobody else seemed to even notice how fucking infuriating the whole thing was! Nobody seemed to even _care_! It was all just “oh, glad you’re back” and “oh, yeah, missed you”, and nobody else seemed to even care that he’d played all of them for complete _idiots_! 

So the Chick avoided the Critic, inasmuch as she could. She didn’t look at him when they were at meals, barely gave him two words when they passed in the halls, and kept to her area of the house. She generally kept her own anger to herself, and nobody else knew that she wanted to tear his fucking throat out with her fingernails. If she sat on the feeling long enough (and drank enough alcohol), it would go away, and everything would be back to normal. Unfortunately, it wasn’t that easy. Things are never that easy. Maybe the Critic realized that she wanted to be left alone, or maybe she wasn’t covering up her irritability as well as she thought she was, but whatever the reason, he kept just… popping up, and it was pissing her off. Wherever she was in the house, he’d be there too, ain’t that a coincidence, so how ‘bout this weather we been having? She dodged all of it, of course – she was a veritable master of it when it came to avoiding people when she needed to be, but it still didn’t seem to be working. 

It all came to a head one afternoon. It wasn’t even night, which made it even _more_ annoying – it would have been more thematically appropriate for them to finally have whatever type of final confrontation thing this was gonna be at night (preferably while raining), or even in the morning for some kind of symbolic bullshit. But no. The Critic decided that he needed to have some Big Important Talk at two in the fucking afternoon on a Sunday, while she was cleaning the bathtub in the communal bathroom (which was usually used for home brewing moonshine or illicit sexual encounters, according to various rumors). 

“What’s got your panties in a wad?” 

The Chick jumped, nearly falling over and into the tub, which would have been… ugh. She’d forgotten how fucking quiet on his feet the Critic could be. “Nothing.” She kept her eyes on the beige tile and tried to keep her jaw from clenching too hard. 

“Bullshit. Tell me a better lie than that. Diamanda fuckin’ Hagan told me you seemed troubled, and you know what a fucking psycho bitch she is!” He was using that obnoxious “we’re all friends aren’t we?” voice that made her want to claw his eyes out. 

“It’s nothing,” the Chick said again, trying to make it seem like she was putting all of her attention on getting one particularly stubborn stain off of the tile. “There is no it. Would you get lost? I’ve got god only knows what to clean up in here.”

“As your employer, it’s my job to – “

“You’re not my employer anymore,” the Chick said stiffly.

“What?” She could hear the confusion in his voice. He was probably getting the “pug with a fart coming on” look on his face. 

“You’re not my employer anymore,” she said again. “Did you lose some of your hearing while you were becoming one with the universe or turning into a muppet or whatever?” 

“I was in a plot hole, not becoming one with the universe,” said the Critic, and then his hand was on her back. Her skin crawled away from the touch of it, even through the old t-shirt she was wearing, and she pulled away from him and stood up, nearly falling over. She turned around and stared up at him, glaring. 

The cheap fluorescent lights in the bathroom reflected on his glasses, making it almost impossible to see his eyes, and that made it a bit better. But it was still his face, and that was it. Her fists clenched, and because she was wearing the stupid yellow rubber gloves, it made a stupid little squeaking noise. It was weird – she didn’t feel attached to her body, not really. It was a bit like she was tied to a string, floating a few feet above herself, while, at the same time, being entirely inside of… well, herself, feeling her hands sweating in her rubber gloves and the freezing cold rage burning the back of her throat. 

“You’re not my employer anymore,” the Chick said, slowly, tasting each word, “because after you were gone, Mike and the Other Guy had to fuck around with everyone’s contracts and what have you because _you_ weren’t around anymore.” 

“Well, how was I supposed to know – “ 

“I know. How the fuck were you supposed to know anything when you were in that plot hole or purgatory or off on vacation in Tahiti for all I fucking know!” Now the rage was poruing out of her, and it was strange that she didn’t see any steam. “So of course you don’t fucking know _anything_.” She prodded him in the chest, hard, and he winced. 

“What are you so angry about? I’m back, aren’t I?” The Critic was crossing his arms over his chest and pouting in that way she used to find so tempting. Now it just made her want to punch him harder. 

“I felt things, okay? Real things. And they hurt, a whole fucking lot, and do you know what grief is like?” She actually shoved him this time, forcing him to take a step back. “Where you’re fine and then some small thing sets you off and you’re not? I fucking _grieved_ for you, douchebag I’m still grieving for you, and you have the fucking… you have the fucking nerve to show up here and expect everything to go back to _normal_? How dare you! How _dare_ you!” She was shouting now, shouting the bring the house down. 

“Listen, it’s not my –“ 

“Just shut up,” the Chick said, and she was snarling, so angry that her chest was frozen and her breath was burning. “I don’t care what you have to say.”

“Can’t I just –“ 

“No!” The Chick pushed him again, forcing him out of the bathroom. Was she stronger due to whatever it was she was feeling that still coursed through her, or because of the fact that he wasn’t that strong after all? She didn’t care. “Go away! Get lost! I don’t care anymore and I have had _enough_ of your bullshit!” She slammed the door to the bathroom, locking it and leaning back against the door. 

The feeling of not being in her own body stayed with her, growing stronger and stronger. Carefully and methodically, she took off the yellow rubber gloves. She took the cleaning supplies out of the shower. She leaned over the tub and turned the faucets. She turned on the shower, and she began to cry into her hands, angry at herself and at him, confused and detached and hurting in a place she didn’t know she had.


End file.
